


Orienteering

by dogeared



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: cliche_bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-26
Updated: 2009-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:45:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogeared/pseuds/dogeared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He punches his pillow and lets out a long breath, and John stirs and says, "Okay?" and that's enough for something inside Rodney to shift and reorient itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orienteering

**Author's Note:**

> "Day-in-the-life"

Rodney stands in a clearing, studying the motes of dust drifting and floating in the sunlight. He's in his uniform, but barefoot, and his toes look pale and ghostly against the green ground. He takes a step, then another, and another, leaves and grass prickling the soles of his feet. He moves forward as if he's on a path leading somewhere, until, in a sudden flurry of feathers and motion, birds he didn't know were there rush out of the undergrowth and arrow past his head in a blur.

He wakes up with a start, his pulse thrumming fast as wing beats. He blinks up at the ceiling and almost expects to see bright afterimages when he closes his eyes, to feel that same confused sense of not knowing where he is. He thinks maybe he'll ask Teyla about the dream later (since it's less embarrassing than the ones where a giant shark's trying to eat him, again, or the ones where he's giving his Nobel acceptance speech and realizes he's forgotten his pants).

He punches his pillow and lets out a long breath, and John stirs and says, "Okay?" and that's enough for something inside Rodney to shift and reorient itself.

Rodney lifts his head so he can see John better—the curve of his shoulder, the sharp line of his jaw. "I had a dream—birds."

"Try to eat you?" John asks, voice raspy, and Rodney says seriously, "No, I don't think so."

"Cool," John says, and Rodney feels a little more grounded in his room, his bed. He looks at the clock—it's morning, but everything's dim and muffled; they've been socked in by fog for weeks. The entire city is damp, and in spite of the fact that Rodney's had a whole team working on the environmental controls and atmosphere scrubbers, it hasn't done much good. There's just too much ocean. So far they haven't had any major problems, but Rodney's towel never dries, and when he happens to glance out a window and see nothing but blank whiteness, he has to fight the uneasy feeling of being nowhere.

He inches closer to John, until his chest and belly and thighs are in John's space, pressed up against his warmth.

"Mmmmm," John says. "Hi." He looks at Rodney with sleepy interest, and Rodney sweeps a hand up John's side just to feel him shiver.

John tugs him closer, slips a thigh between Rodney's legs; he's almost hard, and so is Rodney, and he groans quietly and clutches Rodney's bicep when Rodney palms the front of his boxers.

"C'mere," Rodney says, "c'mere," and he pushes elastic out of the way so that they're skin to skin, both of them a little slick, and John shudders when Rodney presses them together.

"C'mon," he says, and John rests his forehead against Rodney's and pushes into his fist, and if Rodney loses his bearings again for a second or two, it's only because this—John panting and bucking against him, holding on to Rodney and losing control—feels simultaneously so familiar and so unlikely.

Soon, they'll get up and clean up and argue about who gets to use the less-damp towel.

Later, they'll take Torren out to the end of the south pier, where the fog is so thick it's hard to see more than a couple of feet in any direction. Rodney thinks it's a little creepy, but Torren loves it. John will hold Torren up in the air like he's flying, and they'll watch way the fog swirls like a living thing and beads on their skin and hair, on Torren's oilcloth rain gear, and they'll listen for the slosh of the ocean they can't see, for the calls of the sea birds, which Rodney thinks sound eerie on the best days, and even though he's not a climatologist, Rodney will explain about currents and warm fronts, John real and solid next to him, and no matter what his subconscious says, Rodney won't be worried at all about getting lost, about not knowing where he is, about being alone.


End file.
